


Sometimes, You Fly

by MrsHamill



Series: Riding the Wheel of If [14]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-10
Updated: 2003-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The price of learning to fly again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, You Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Fox and Emu (I'm surrounded by animals!) helped me enormously on this story, and thanks aren't really enough for their help and friendship. Since I've tweaked it after Fox's thorough beta, all mistakes herein are mine. This is your tour director, terri, welcoming to the second arc of the Post-Wheeliverse. Please fasten your seatbelts snugly and keep all dangly bits inside the vehicle while it is in motion. Thank you.

_It is sometimes a mistake to climb; it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt._  
  
\-- Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman: Fables and Reflections_  
  


* * *

  
Obi-Wan Kenobi slammed into his apartment, muttering and stomping and throwing various things -- his robe, his boots (wrenched from his feet without unbuckling them; no mean feat, that), a few datapads -- all around the common room, not noticing or appearing to care where they landed. His spouse, Qui-Gon Jinn, watched the performance from his place at their small dining table, a cup of tea poised half-way to his mouth and his eyebrows raised.  
  
Finally bereft of things to throw -- unless he wanted to begin disrobing, and Qui-Gon wouldn't have said no -- Obi-Wan came to a stop in the middle of the room, his fists clenching and releasing, his chest heaving with his labored breath. Looking around the room, his gaze came to rest on Qui-Gon, who was still staring at him.  
  
"You know, if I had half the brain of a mynock, I'd be dangerous," Obi-Wan snarled to Qui-Gon. "I cannot fucking believe all the time I wasted on this ... How could I be so damned stupid?!" He ran his hands through his lengthening red-gold hair, and yanked -- hard. Qui-Gon winced. "The whole fucking day, Qui! A total and complete waste of time."  
  
"I take it, then, that it didn't go over well," Qui-Gon asked mildly, finally taking a sip of his tea.  
  
Obi-Wan snorted, then threw himself on the sofa. Apparently, that wasn't sufficient, because he immediately jumped up again and began to pace. "Of course it didn't go over well. I presented it, didn't I? I should have seen it coming and just quit while I was ahead ... as if a date-focused system ... It's not like I don't have other things to do ... Not, of course, that I have time to do them _now_ ..."  
  
"What do you have to do?" Qui-Gon asked, frowning slightly. "Let me help."  
  
"How can you help?!" Obi-Wan nearly yelled. "The printer isn't working properly and I haven't had enough time to fix it -- if it can be fixed, that is. I've got to get our laundry from the quartermaster so we'll have something to wear and to sleep on -- I've got to get a new order of food in as well, because, if you haven't noticed, we have _nothing_ in the kitchenette that's worth eating -- which reminds me, I also need to clean out the coldbox before some of that stuff in there develops language skills -- and I've got two classes I'm subbing for, one this afternoon and one tomorrow and I haven't even read the fucking syllabus. On either of them! And I just wasted all day on this sithdamned proposal that I _knew_ wouldn't fly and if I'd just used the brains the Force gave a rock, I'd--"  
  
Qui-Gon had stood at the beginning of the rant, and by this time was standing in the path of the violently pacing Obi-Wan. "Obi." When Obi-Wan looked up to see Qui-Gon right in front of him, he nearly flinched. Qui-Gon ignored the reaction and reached out -- slowly -- to touch Obi-Wan's cheek and the beginnings of a soft, reddish beard there. "I am not your master, my love," he said quietly, soberly. "I am not your roommate nor am I your sibling. I am your spouse, someone who wishes to share everything with you. Good and bad."  
  
"I know, I know," Obi-Wan began, shaking his head hard.  
  
Continuing to talk, Qui-Gon wouldn't let him interrupt. "And, as you so succinctly put it during last week's sabacc game, you are not my bond-slave. I do not expect you to do all the chores around our home. I can and will help you -- but it seems like you hardly ever give me the chance."  
  
Obi-Wan took a deep, deep breath, planted his fists on his hips, and slowly blew it out. He didn't look up at Qui-Gon, but he nodded shortly. "Can we try this?" Qui-Gon continued, in a businesslike tone of voice. He had learned -- the hard way -- that neither pity nor sympathy worked with his Obi-Wan when he was in this kind of mood. "I'll clean out the coldbox -- you're right about the sentiency of some of the more questionable things in there -- and make a list of what we need -- we need more shampoo and, uh, bath oil too --" Obi-Wan barked out a laugh at that-- "and go to the quartermaster's for the laundry, groceries and dry goods, and have it all delivered, later on tonight. For dinner, we'll send out for flatbread, after you get back from class. Then, you and I can make our bed. As for the printer ... to hell with it. We're supposed to be paperless here in the Temple anyway."  
  
Snorting at that idea, Obi-Wan said, "You'd better add watering the plants, too, then." His voice was still hard, but the volume level had decreased considerably. His body was almost vibrating in place, but he didn't seem quite so manic any more.  
  
"Already done," Qui-Gon said, trying for cheerful. "Now. Do you think I ought to have my 'saber with me when I brave the coldbox?"  
  
"It probably couldn't hurt," Obi-Wan muttered. He was still studying a spot on the carpet between them, and Qui-Gon moved just a bit closer so that his boots would be on that spot. He was hoping to get Obi-Wan to look up at him, but instead, Obi-Wan just turned away. "I'd better pull up the syllabus," Qui-Gon heard, and he sighed -- to himself. He was careful not to let any sound escape.  
  
It had been like this for the first part -- Force, it had been over six months! -- of their marriage: ups that were wonderful and downs that were frighteningly dreadful. Qui-Gon knew that his Obi-Wan had come to him damaged, fragile -- the evidence of the damage was visible to him every time he saw the man naked. In fact, it was only recently that he was able to look at that evidence dispassionately, without the very un-Jedi-like urge to rend the monster who had inflicted it. But to Obi-Wan, it wasn't evidence of anything other than his failure ... something that Qui-Gon simply couldn't understand.  
  
The healers had met with him privately, not so much discussing Obi-Wan's progress in treatment as warning him what to expect -- and what not to expect. Obi-Wan's psyche had undergone tremendous strain, almost impossible abuse, and he had come out of it changed, altered -- bent, but not broken. And Qui-Gon knew all too well, what didn't kill, made stronger. Obi-Wan had not been killed.  
  
But there were times when Obi-Wan wished he had been, and Qui-Gon ached for him in those times. Obi-Wan still suffered through nightmares far too often for comfort, and it had become almost routine for them to lose some sleep at least once a week. Something else Obi-Wan saw as a failure on his part -- which was, again, simply incomprehensible to Qui-Gon.  
  
While cleaning out the coldbox -- Qui-Gon could almost kick himself even as he held his nose at some of the things he found in there; he should have known this needed to be done! -- Qui-Gon ruminated on this latest problem. There were so many things that were different for Obi-Wan here, in this reality that was now his home. Most of them were good, and most of them he had come to appreciate highly. In fact, this was one of them -- Obi-Wan had told him that in his original reality, knights and masters lived in small rooms, almost cells, and all eating was done in the communal dining hall, as there were no kitchens in the rooms. Here, the commissary and other food suppliers were open to all but food was deducted from their pay -- another change for Obi-Wan -- and the quartermaster supplied groceries, dry goods, bedding, laundry service, and other essentials, for a service fee.  
  
Grimacing, Qui-Gon gingerly removed a bulging container and tossed it, without even trying to save it, into the refuse reclamation unit. He was certain that the outraged squeal he heard as the item was reduced to its component atoms was all in his imagination.  
  
Despite not having had a lot of practice at it, Obi-Wan had turned into a wonderful cook -- far better than Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan had other talents too. He was a marvelous teacher, especially of the younger padawans; he was gentle and patient with them and was even helping Loral AmKaRa with Anakin's 'saber training. Despite a reluctance to fly them, he also turned out to have a flair for ship mechanics. They had only been assigned one mission so far, but it had involved fairly tricky negotiations between three rival factions in one star system, and Obi-Wan had acquitted himself brilliantly.  
  
Qui-Gon froze and his brow furrowed. The mission had lasted nearly a month -- they had just returned a week and a half before -- and Obi-Wan hadn't had one nightmare during the entire time. Qui-Gon -- and Obi-Wan, for that matter -- had been so busy they hadn't even noticed it.  
  
While he gave the newly cleaned-out coldbox a cursory swipe with a damp cloth, Qui-Gon thought about that, wondering if that might not be the solution, or at least part of it. Hanging around the Temple merely gave Obi-Wan more time to think, to brood, to come up with radical proposals to fix non-existent problems.  
  
He quickly noted a few items they needed on his PDA, making sure to add the bath items as well. Then, still lost in thought, he walked out of the kitchenette. Obi-Wan was at the dataset, engrossed in his syllabus, and Qui-Gon dropped a kiss on his head in passing, not really expecting a reaction and surprised when he got one. Obi-Wan reached up and touched his hand, stopping him. "I'm sorry," he murmured with a sigh.  
  
"Obi-Wan, there's nothing to be sorry for," Qui-Gon said with as much sincerity as he could, squeezing the hand in his. "I'll let you know when there is, trust me." His attempt at humor was met with a weak smile, and he dropped another kiss, this time on his nose. "Be right back."  
  
As he hurried through the Temple towards the quartermaster's office, Qui-Gon made a mental note to himself to ask both Obi-Wan's doctors and Mace Windu for permission to be placed on a more frequent mission rotation schedule.  
  


* * *

  
Four Months Later:  
  
"You look tired," Healer Dotrick said, joining Obi-Wan at their favorite spot, in the garden near the healer's wing.  
  
Obi-Wan gave her a wry smile. "You think?" he said, tipping his head back to take advantage of the sunlight streaming down. "It's been a frantic few months."  
  
"So I hear," she replied. She hoisted herself on the low bench -- she was much shorter than Obi-Wan but more powerfully built -- and settled her robe about her, letting her crest fan out to absorb the warmth of the sun. Obi-Wan was pleased she liked his choice of seats. Being reptilian meant she was often cold in the Temple, and Obi-Wan always tried to think of her need for heat in choosing a place to sit. "I've read the preliminary mission reports. You and your mate seem to have done very, very well."  
  
Obi-Wan was feeling the tension of the past few weeks beginning to uncoil in his belly, and just grunted in reply. He wasn't really surprised that Healer Dotrick had read the reports; she was, after all, his very own, personal mind-sifter. Mind-healer. Whatever. At least he could tolerate her better than many of the other ones, as she never intruded where she wasn't wanted. Except, of course, when she did.  
  
"Tell me about them ... more precisely, tell me how you did on them," she asked softly.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, wary. He always hated these kinds of discussions; he never knew what to say.  
  
"Well, I did say you looked tired ... have you been having many nightmares?"  
  
Obi-Wan opened his mouth and drew in a breath to respond, then, leaving it open, he blinked in confusion. The air slowly left his lungs and his mouth slowly closed. "No," he finally said, surprise touching his voice. "I didn't even realize it, but no, I didn't. Not once." His surprised look turned into a frown. "Then again, we barely slept the last couple of weeks at all. I didn't have time to dream."  
  
"Before then," Healer Dotrick urged. "You were sleeping on the mission to Sirrus-Thia first, is that not correct?"  
  
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. He cast his mind back. The Sirsthians had been fractious, aggravating and frustrating, for both himself and Qui-Gon. It was almost by dint of brute strength that they managed to get a mutually _dis_ satisfactory treaty signed -- but it was dissatisfactory for all parties, equally, which made it palatable to all concerned, barely. Then, on their way back to the Temple, the Council had requested they divert to Ro'et III to help the war-torn planet with humanitarian relief. They were one of fifteen teams sent to that planet.  
  
What a horror that mission had turned out to be. Unexploded mortars everywhere, the dead, the dying, the hungry -- weak and dying children and mutilated, rotting bodies. He and Qui-Gon worked tirelessly to dig out those trapped, to bury or burn the dead and decaying, to distribute food and medical supplies to those areas that needed it most, and to keep the black market away from the wounded as much as possible.  
  
At one point, Obi-Wan had been separated from Qui-Gon during a fight with would-be looters of desperately-needed medical supplies and had nearly panicked. It was a barely-felt presence in the back of his mind that reassured him enough to keep fighting -- to protect the supplies rather than racing off to find his spouse -- and his trust in that feeling paid off once the looters were driven away. He found Qui-Gon in a -- secure, so they thought -- back room of the warehouse they had been defending, his arms full of toddlers, five dead looters under the blasted wall, three more just outside it.  
  
Becoming aware that Healer Dotrick had been reading the images from his public mind -- he had become used to her formidable telepathic talent -- he turned to look at her. "I took two of the babies from him," Obi-Wan continued as if he had been speaking aloud, "and helped him carry them all out to their mothers, grandmothers, aunts and guardians." He sighed. "Qui-Gon felt the bump in the Force that alerted him to the presence of the secondary attack. I had ... I had felt nothing."  
  
"But you were suffused in the moment," Dotrick said gently. Obi-Wan knew she had relived the fight with him almost as well as if she had been there with him. "You were fighting well, holding the line against the dark. Just as your mate was."  
  
"But ..." Obi-Wan swallowed. "I should have felt what he felt. I should have gone with him, to support him. The Force ..."  
  
"The Force apparently knew what it was doing," Dotrick said with her customary dry wit. "Perhaps it knew that you were needed where you were, and that your mate was needed where he was needed. If it had needed you, it would have told you."  
  
"Now who's anthropomorphizing?" Obi-Wan said with a mild glare. "You won't let me do it--"  
  
"Since I am not anthropic, such limitation cannot be applied to me," she interrupted calmly, ignoring his snort of amusement and derision. "However, it is time that you released your feelings over the situation to the Force. Obviously, your mate's idea of more missions was a good one, and you suffered no serious ill-effects. Indeed, it seems to have helped your situation considerably."  
  
Obi-Wan did a double take and his eyes widened. "Wait a minute ... Qui-Gon _asked_ for these missions?"  
  
"Obviously not the precise missions you were sent on and obviously not the mission to Ro'et III," Dotrick said, placid in the face of his astonishment. "But he had asked me if getting on a heavier rotation schedule would be good for the two of you. I told him yes, obviously."  
  
"You told him _yes_?" Obi-Wan asked her, aghast and appalled. "I don't ... Why did you ...?"  
  
"Why are you upset about this?" she asked him, cocking her head at him in a way that irritated him though he didn't know why. "It was an experiment that worked. Nothing bad has come of it, and Qui-Gon is quite aware of your difficulties. He would have ended any mission that became too much for either of you. For that matter, _you_ would have ended any mission you were incapable of finishing. Yet you did not end either of these two, very difficult, back-to-back missions."  
  
"But I'm not ready!" Obi-Wan protested, vehemently and abruptly. At the serene doubt on her face, he repeated, "I'm not! I still have these sith-damned nightmares, I can't control myself ..."  
  
"You have had no problems on any of the missions you have completed so far," Dotrick contradicted him, her slightly sibilant voice still infuriatingly mild. "Do you feel that you were stretched too thin in your effort to maintain control on these missions?"  
  
Too honest with himself and others to lie, Obi-Wan struggled to find a reason behind his certainty. "N-no ..." he said, frowning. He licked his lips and his gaze struggled around the garden. "But ..."  
  
"Do you not trust me to judge you fairly?" she asked. "Do you feel as if I'm not completely or adequately understanding the pressures you feel, inside and out?"  
  
Helplessly, Obi-Wan slumped in his seat and swallowed hard as he regarded his healer. "I'm not ready," he repeated in a whisper. "I know I'm not."  
  
"And yet empirical evidence refutes your belief," she said gently. "You are capable, intelligent, strong and well-grounded. The reports on your recent missions show that you are imaginative and inventive when it comes to resolving problems. And yet ..."  
  
Her voice trailed off, and Obi-Wan, suddenly incapable of sitting still, leapt to his feet. He walked a few paces away and then paused, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his eyes restlessly scanned the garden. "And yet," Healer Dotrick continued from behind him, "you feel inadequate. Correct?"  
  
"I'm not ready," was all he could say, repeating it over and over in a whisper.  
  
"Is it possible that what you feel is fear, rather than inadequacy?" Dotrick asked softly. "Examine your feelings objectively, Obi-Wan, rather than subjectively."  
  
"If I could do that, I wouldn't be here," he said. Although his voice attempted to be wry, he found himself far too near tears for his own good. "I'm ... I'm damaged."  
  
"You were damaged," Dotrick corrected him. "You were damaged and you are healing. You are no longer damaged. You are healing." Obi-Wan hung his head -- this was nothing new, it was a litany Dotrick had been hammering on him since the beginning. It failed to really take root again, just as it always had. "I will repeat it as many times as I need to, Obi-Wan," she said, correctly interpreting his stance.  
  
"I ..." he swallowed again, turned and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I feel like an imposter," he whispered, forcing the words past reluctant lips. "I feel like someone who has taken the place of this so-called Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi and is pretending to be him. I don't have it within me to live up to the expectations that are pressed upon me. I don't know how to do that."  
  
"You don't need to know how to do it," Dotrick said. "It is the same as walking, the same as breathing and blinking and scratching an itch. The same, even, as loving your mate. It is instinctive. For whether or not you are consciously aware of it, you _are_ Obi-Wan Kenobi. And you _are_ ready."  
  
"How can you know that?" Obi-Wan asked her plaintively. "How can _you_ know it when _I_ don't?"  
  
"Perhaps because I'm standing outside your skin?" Dotrick replied. Obi-Wan turned to face her fully, and he knew the confusion he felt was plain on his face. "You may not be able -- yet -- to see yourself objectively, but others do, Obi-Wan. And despite your fears and insecurities, we see you as you truly are, not as you would have us see you."  
  
"But ..." Obi-Wan reluctantly came back to sit next to her again. "But ... I don't want you to see me," he said, scrubbing his face with his hands, effectively hiding behind them. "I don't want _any_ of you to see me, not the way I really am. Not even Qui-Gon. I ... I ..."  
  
Healer Dotrick reached out with one scaly hand and placed it on Obi-Wan's knee, patting him gently. "I know, Obi-Wan. I know. We all have masks that we wear at various times in our life. You should not feel bad about continuing to wear yours when you feel overwhelmed. Eventually, you will come to understand that it isn't really a mask, but your true face."  
  


* * *

  
Qui-Gon Jinn submitted the last of the necessary reports due to the Council just as the teakettle sang out. With a flourish, he sent the form over the datanet and signed off, moving to the kitchenette to start the tea. He made enough for himself and his spouse, for he knew that Obi-Wan's session with Healer Dotrick would undoubtedly end shortly, and Obi-Wan would be home soon.  
  
In fact, Qui-Gon had just sat down, a pot of tea before him and a cup on its way to his mouth, when Obi-Wan walked into their apartment. Qui-Gon froze with the cup half-way to his mouth as he regarded Obi-Wan.  
  
In the past, Obi-Wan would often stalk into their apartment after his session with Healer Dotrick, would avoid looking and talking to Qui-Gon and spend a few minutes -- or hours -- on the balcony, letting the air traffic hypnotize him. When he didn't come home angry, he would come home with a false air of contentment around him, which would last until he made any small mistake -- like putting too much honey in his tea -- at which point he would explode into inappropriate and inarticulate rage.  
  
Qui-Gon often wondered exactly what went on in Obi-Wan's sessions, and sometimes felt a pang of regret that Obi-Wan wouldn't discuss them with him. But by the same token, he realized that it truly wasn't any of his business, no matter how much he loved Obi-Wan, and further, he knew if there was anything Obi-Wan wanted or needed to tell him, it would come out. Sooner or later.  
  
This evening, Obi-Wan came through the door slowly, and his face bore an expression at once thoughtful and anxious. He hung his cloak up carefully on the coat tree near the door, and spent a few moments unfastening buckles and pulling off his boots. Then he walked -- with his head down -- to the table and sat down opposite his spouse, who was still frozen, completely uncertain how to handle this unexpected mood.  
  
While Obi-Wan poured himself a cup of tea from the cozied pot, Qui-Gon managed to finish his first sip, and put his cup down. "I've finished the reports," he said, his voice tentative, his head cocked to the side as he regarded Obi-Wan intently.  
  
"Mmm," Obi-Wan replied, doctoring his tea and taking a sip. He still didn't look at Qui-Gon.  
  
"What would you like to do for dinner tonight?" Qui-Gon asked after a moment of silence, since it didn't appear Obi-Wan would talk without a prompt. "I think the commissary would be ideal, since the order we placed with the quartermaster this afternoon won't come in until tomorrow morning."  
  
Obi-Wan put his teacup down on the table, stared into it for a few moments, then finally, slowly, raised his head to look toward Qui-Gon. He wouldn't, however, meet Qui-Gon's eyes. "Why--" the word came out rusty, raw, and he cleared his throat briefly before trying again. "Why didn't you tell me you had gone to Dotrick about putting us on a heavier rotation schedule?"  
  
Qui-Gon cleared his own throat before replying, wondering if he had made a tactical error in not discussing this issue before-hand. "Because she asked me not to?" he replied, giving Obi-Wan an apologetic look. "I was only asking if it was a good idea, before bringing it up with you. But, well ... she specifically told me, when she cleared us, not to mention it to you until after your next appointment."  
  
Looking back down at his teacup, Obi-Wan nodded. "I figured as much," he muttered.  
  
"I'm sorry," Qui-Gon said earnestly, aching to reach out and touch Obi-Wan, but reluctant to do so, lest the gesture be misinterpreted. "I really didn't think it would make that much difference to you, or I would have disagreed with her request -- you know I've never followed advice I disagreed with. Ultimately, I guess it was my decision ... I just figured we were ready, and whether or not you knew I asked for it was irrelevant."  
  
Obi-Wan glanced up sharply at his words and frowned, but didn't say anything.  
  
"I am sorry, and if you would rather we not ..."  
  
"No," Obi-Wan interjected softly. "No, I guess that's all right."  
  
Puzzled at his Obi-Wan's uncharacteristic reticence, Qui-Gon studied him carefully. Obi-Wan was almost preternaturally still, his long fingers wrapped around his teacup and his eyes fixed on the liquid. "Obi?" Qui-Gon finally asked softly. "Is everything all right?"  
  
Obi-Wan didn't reply for quite some time. He let his tea cool, and stayed motionless. Qui-Gon felt as though he were witnessing something, something momentous or perhaps ordinary, but he wasn't quite certain what it was. He simply knew that he would wait, forever, if necessary, for whatever Obi-Wan needed to say, needed to do.  
  
Finally, Obi-Wan took a deep, deep breath, held it for a moment, then blew it out slowly. "Why don't we just send out for flatbread?" he said, his eyes at last coming up to meet Qui-Gon's, who let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Obi-Wan's eyes were clear and honest, and looked less troubled than Qui-Gon had expected, or even had hoped. "Is there any root beer left?"  
  
Qui-Gon sat back in his chair and slowly smiled. "Yes," he said. "I think perhaps there is."  
  


* * *

  
_If you do not climb you will not fall. This is true. But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall? Sometimes you wake, and sometimes, yes, you die. But there is a third alternative ..._  
  
\-- Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman: Fables and Reflections_

end


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